


ultimately (it’s a beautiful thing)

by demonicxiconic



Series: good omens: lockdown but make it even gayer [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cuddling, Dorks in Love, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Good Omens: Lockdown, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Implied shower sex, Ineffable Idiots, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Mild Hair-Pulling Kink, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Quarantine, Six Thousand Years of Pining (Good Omens), Smut, aziraphale’s is asking permission to kiss him, crowley’s love language is making breakfast, god i love that shit, idiots to lovers, ineffable husbands, no beta we saunter vaguely downwards like Crowley, they’re both soft on the inside and hard on the outside bc they horny and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonicxiconic/pseuds/demonicxiconic
Summary: title from ultimately- khai dreams.the continuation of without you (i’ll never be home), which in turn is a continuation of good omens: lockdown. you don’t have to read the predecessor or watch GO:L to understand this, but it might be helpful!In which Crowley and Aziraphale are settling into this new (albeit, expected/wanted for six millennia) development in their relationship, a demon spontaneously creates a coffee machine, and everyone cries a little bit, including myself.warning: contains a bit of nsfw, so read the tags! here there be fuckin’
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: good omens: lockdown but make it even gayer [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810507
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	ultimately (it’s a beautiful thing)

**Author's Note:**

> i word vomited a lil at the end but it’s okay :) enjoy this barely-edited mess
> 
> (ALSO my main man gaygayyayyay rlly helped me improve the bits that were too word-vomity so go tell her she’s cool on tumblr! i’m under the same username there if you want a good source of political shit, good omens shit, and occasionally bfu shit! it’s all shit there lol)

✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁

Crowley was awake first.

This surprised him. He’d always thought that if Aziraphale did decide to sleep, he’d only do so in short bursts, but he had certainly been proven wrong on that count.

He’d also thought that angels, if they were to sleep, would not snore. At most, perhaps a dainty sigh or two as they slept, radiating peace and warmth and insufferable holiness.

He was also wrong on that count. Aziraphale snored. Not loud enough to wake him, hardly anything was enough to wake him, but it was certainly noticeable.

The sun seeped through the blinds, glinting amber and gold in Crowley’s hair, skating across his angular features as he half-opened his eyes. He was greeted by the startlingly familiar* sight of a small oak desk, a few novels stacked along the back, stained by centuries worth of ink. There was a shelf next to it, above a cozy, as-of-yet-unlit fireplace, and he recognized, with an upward twitch of his lips, several gifts from him, as well as a few useless knickknacks that had mysteriously appeared here and there (what the heaven were doilies supposed to be for, anyways?). Aziraphale’s hand rested tentatively on his elbow, warm and soft, the other arm tucked beneath his torso, his chest pressed to the demon’s bare back.

*It was startling because, like him, the world had always seemed to wake up different every day. Somehow, Aziraphale had made him slow down, and he found himself growing familiar with sights and sounds, making attachments and associations instead of just brushing by.

Aziraphale had miracled the room into existence a few days in, after some slightly uncomfortable nights spent curled up together on the largest couch in the shop. It had smelled so overwhelmingly like the angel that Crowley had gone a bit light-headed, which was very worrying for Aziraphale, who thought his demon was about to faint. They’d both gotten used to the room rather quickly, and its smell had shifted from pure ozone and wine to a mixture of those and smoke, soil and a hint of maraschino cherries (the only sweet food Crowley enjoyed other than ice cream. He’d only taken to the former because they sometimes came in alcohol, and the latter because he’d tried it disguised as Aziraphale and discovered he rather liked it).

He turned over, wriggling about in the angel’s arms until they were face to face. Aziraphale’s hair was sticking out in little white-blonde wisps and waves, snarled into a platinum crown, and Crowley smiled a very un-demonic smile, brushing a few strands off of his forehead. Maybe it’s miracles, maybe it’s Maybelline, maybe it’s a demon tenderly running his fingers through your hair.

Aziraphale’s face looked unburdened, sinfully soft lips barely opened, and the way the sun illuminated his face made Crowley rethink his stance on divine intervention. Clearly, God had had to make some edits to Her plan to get them together, and She was now weaving a path for them through the universe. He silently, begrudgingly, thanked Her for being patient for six thousand bloody years.

That was the thing though. At the moment, the angel didn’t seem divine. He didn’t look particularly radiant or heavenly or angelic.

He just looked like Aziraphale, soft and peaceful, mouth slightly open, wearing an awful matching set of tartan pyjamas and tucking his head closer into Crowley’s chest.

The demon disentangled himself from the angel, stretching much further back than any human could and letting out a loud sigh as he felt his spine crack back into place. He was only wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants that he’d miracled over from his flat, and he tugged them back up over his skinny hips as he stood.

Over the years, Crowley had gradually become addicted to coffee, so, as he slithered down into the kitchen, he was very pleased* to find a shiny coffeemaker sitting on the counter. He’d missed it the few times he’d ventured through the wall of baked goods into the kitchen, but he just accepted it and moved on to searching for a mug.

*As well as a smidge surprised. He’d thought Aziraphale ran on pure divine essence, annoyance, and the occasional cup of caffeinated tea.

After a bit of digging around in a cabinet, he found them: the tacky matching mugs the angel had bought them at Bath and Body Works, or Pottery Barn, or.. something. Some of the paint on Crowley’s was peeling, but he simply glared at it, and the surface of the mug became perfectly smooth and glossy. He did the same to Aziraphale’s mug, which was stained from years of drinks, memories ringing the inside.

Crowley hadn’t bought coffee since the sixteenth century, and he hadn’t bought a new coffeemaker since 1925. When making it by himself, he always assumed two things: that the machine was in perfect working order, and that it was already prepared with coffee. 

So, the rather confused coffee machine, which was sure it hadn’t existed a few minutes ago, began making quiet rumbling noises, and a small stream of acrid, brown liquid began trickling into the pot.

✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁

Aziraphale woke to the sound of the door to the bedroom shutting. He specifically didn’t think ‘his’ bedroom, or ‘their’ bedroom, because he wasn’t sure it had been lived in enough to be owned just yet. It was simply the bedroom.

Groggily, he rolled over and smiled at the figure in the doorway, frozen mid-step. His demon* had clearly been trying to sneak back in without disturbing his sleep. 

*He thought six thousand years was about long enough to be able to call Crowley his.

Instead of apologizing, Crowley stepped out of the shadows and leaned against the doorframe, trying (and not.. entirely failing. It was a close thing, though.) to appear as if he hadn’t been trying to silently slither back into the room, which gave Aziraphale a lovely view of what exactly he was wearing. He adored when Crowley, both literally and figuratively, let his hair down, and this was one of those occasions.

As his eyes trailed appreciatively across the demon’s bare chest, and then down to the waistband of those sweatpants that barely approached decent with how close they were to slipping off, the angel noticed Crowley was blushing*. His hair had grown to just about below his reddened ears, and at the moment it looked fetchingly messy, framing his face in ringlets, brushing gently at his jaw, a few fiery curls haphazardly sticking out. As he faux-casually ran his fingers through it, coughing awkwardly, Aziraphale felt himself fall in love even more.

*Which he planned to mention later, if only to get another lovely bout of stuttering and flushing and pure nervousness.

“G’morning, angel. Coffee?”

He gestured vaguely towards the angel with his mug, not moving from the doorway. Aziraphale sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes and looking perturbed.

“Er- Crowley, darling, I don’t have a coffeemaker. Where in the world did you get that from?”

The demon glanced down at the mug, confusion flitting across his face.

“B- I ju- ohhh.”

“What?”

“...I may have.. accidentally.. miracled you a coffee machine.”

Aziraphale sighed, sitting up further and crossing his legs, but his annoyance wouldn’t last for long. He patted the space next to him, tilting his head imploringly in a way he knew would have Crowley ready to do anything for him.

“Come here, would you, dear? I’m not quite ready to face the day yet.”

Crowley chuckled, setting down the coffee and flopping down onto the bed. He tilted his head back, grinning at the angel upside down.

“What is there to face? Other than the massive feat of continuing to eat that copious pile of macarons.”

His stomach chose that moment to gurgle, and he giggled self-consciously, though that faded from his mind as he saw the besotted smile the serpent sent his way as he flipped onto his stomach. The angel replied with a soft look of his own, and it suddenly felt like the Garden all over again, like the discovery of something new and strange and wonderful, and it was such an overwhelmingly beautiful feeling.

✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁

Later, they’ll discuss who initiated it, each pointing the finger at the other, but for the sake of time, we’ll skip right past that question, because what’s more important in that moment is that they were abruptly, sweetly, messily kissing. It felt desperate and hot and like two pieces that were meant to go together finally slotting into place. It felt like Icarus, wings melting in the glory of the sun, and it felt like Prometheus breaking out of his chains.

Suffice to say, it was a pretty damn good kiss.

Crowley tilted his head, shifting his body so he was in a good position to push Aziraphale down into the pillows. The angel went willingly, wrapping his arms around the taller man’s neck as he was lowered and sighing quietly into his mouth.

The demon pulled back, panting a bit, and grinned a wicked grin, and Aziraphale realized, as he licked his lips nervously, that he had never been more eager to agree to something Crowley suggested, even if he didn’t know what it was yet. It was rash and stupid and completely unangelic of him, and that only served to make the possibilities even more delicious. Breathlessly, he told him as much, before tugging him back into another urgent kiss.

“Crowley, dear boy, whatever it is- yes, a thousand times yes.”

Crowley smiled against his lips, eyes dark and dangerous and beautiful, a single curl of hair brushing teasingly against Aziraphale’s cheek. The angel could see his demon was trying to hide his excitement and anxiousness as he spoke, but he chose not to comment.

“Really? Surrendering yourself so easily, to a demon no less, without even knowing what you’re agreeing to? Surely that’s blasphemy.”

“I’m fairly certain there’s nothing blasphemous about love.”

The demon Crowley, once called Crawly, the Original Tempter, Serpent of Eden, Hell’s former favorite, blushed. His light freckles disappeared in favor of the quickly spreading rosy colour, and Aziraphale laughed quietly, brushing one of the messy locks of hair out of the demon’s face. Crowley forced the blush away, looking hungrily down at the angel like he wanted to eat the laughter off of his lips.

“There’s definitely something blasphemous about what I want to do to you, angel.”

The devilish tone in the redhead’s voice made the angel tense, flushing even pinker as he realized what he’d just gotten himself into, but he kept his gaze steady, licking his lips once more.

“Oh, d-do tell.”

Something flashed in Crowley’s eyes, and Aziraphale shuddered as the demon pinned his hands together with one decisive movement, the other hand trailing down his chest and skating across the small strip of exposed skin above his waistband, which made him squirm a bit.

“Angel, if you give me the word, I’m gonna make you scream.”

The angel twisted fruitlessly in his grip, hips straining upwards, chasing the delicious burn of the demon’s body against his as Crowley watched with growing intensity, a predator seeing its prey struggle away from its fangs. They both knew Aziraphale could push him off if he wanted to*, but that was what made it even better: that he wanted it so much he didn’t even really struggle. 

*No one was as acutely aware of this as Crowley, who still broke a nervous sweat when he thought of the few times he and Aziraphale had sparred, which had all ended with the demon either backed against a wall, pinned to the ground, or, on one very memorable occasion, kneeling with a sword to his throat. He was incredibly lucky that Aziraphale had always managed to pin him just barely after he’d willed away his Effort. The angel may have been a bit soft, but he was still a Principality, and there was only so much you could change about that without Falling.

Aziraphale forced something that sounded vaguely like words out of his dry throat, and the demon tilted his head, leaning in closer.

“What was that, darling?”

The angel had thought about this. He’d had millennia, torturous, torturous millennia, to consider every single way he could have his demon. Though, if he was being honest, most of his speculations had him in the position Crowley was in*, but he wasn’t complaining.

*He supposed they could always try that later, and what a thought that was, that there could be another time, that this wasn’t a one-off.

But not even thousands of years of pondering will prepare you for a demon, straddling your hips and pinning your hands together and asking you to beg to get off. Somehow, through the haze of flustered arousal, he managed to remember how his vocal chords worked, and work they did, despite the fact that his brain was practically melting out of his ears from the.. everything about the situation he was in.

“Oh, Crowley.. please, I’ll take a-anything you give me, just.. just, give it to me soon?”

And that was all Crowley needed.

He let go of Aziraphale’s hands in favor of moving down his body, darting his tongue out distractedly as he undid the tie on the horrible tartan pyjama pants, pulling them down to the knees. The angel took advantage of his freedom to grab the demon by the hair and pull him closer, earning a surprised (but certainly not unhappy) “Ah! F- God’s sake, Azira-“

And then they were kissing again, Crowley’s hands slipping beneath the equally horrible tartan shirt and tracing lines down the sides in such a fashion that Aziraphale shivered. At some point, they’d both settled on cocks for this round, and they both let out a strangled sound at the feeling of them grinding together. There was a sort of irony in the ever-patient angel yanking down both their boxers as fast he could, but the intricacies of irony were forgotten as soon as bare skin met skin.

After a few hazy, torturously good minutes, in which Crowley discovered that his angel could give just as good (or perhaps better) as he got, and Aziraphale discovered that the demon was incredibly prone to giving filthy, loud, enthusiastic feedback (the time Aziraphale had begun leaving small bite marks along Crowley’s neck as he continued to grind mercilessly downwards came to mind), the demon pulled Aziraphale back up and then some, so he could nearly fit all of himself in the demon’s lap and still have access to both their hardening cocks. The angel crossed his legs behind the demon’s back, and buried his head in his neck to muffle any especially loud sounds he might make as he felt a calloused, long-fingered hand begin to stroke both of them at once, starting gently but quickly becoming more fervent and needy, and goodness was that Crowley making those desperate noises? Experimentally, he ground his hips forward, nipping lightly at his partner’s neck, and the demon let out an embarrassingly loud “Ng- ah, angel, fucking h- ghk- hell.”

To repay his angel, Crowley let his hand venture higher, practically massaging the head, and there was most certainly something blasphemous about the obscene sound that escaped Aziraphale’s lips, and the way he threw his head back, exposing a tempting patch of soft, pale skin, flushed like a ripened peach. Forbidden fruit was the sweetest, that Crowley knew for certain, and what delicacy more forbidden than the pale expanse of angel spread out before him like a feast?

Somewhere in his mind, the demon knew he was mumbling, filthy compliments, orders, pleas, anything to get the message through: Right now, I want you more than anything else on this earth.

Aziraphale rocked his hips forward rhythmically, practically drowning in the stream of praise and gasps, choking out a few words as he felt himself near his climax.

“Ah- Crowley, love, I’m going to- hah, fu-“

“Yesss, yes, shit, come for me angel, nghh, you can do it, fuck!”

He bit down on Crowley’s shoulder with a moan, feeling his legs shake as he came onto the taller man’s chest. Crowley continued stroking, and what with Aziraphale biting him and holding him and wanting him so much, it was a surprise he was able to last the few more seconds that he did.

When they wound down from their respective highs, Aziraphale found himself slumped over Crowley’s shoulder, hands meeting at the nape of his neck. He pulled back, kissing the demon on the nose and smiling as those gorgeous golden eyes fluttered open.

“I must say, you’ve set the bar fairly high, my dear.”

Crowley laughed, leaning in and trailing kisses up the column of his partner’s neck, darting his tongue out and feeling him shiver.

“Have I? I thought that was alright, but we both know I can do better.”

He punctuated that statement with a devastating roll of his hips, and Aziraphale’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head, cock nearly half-hard already (because refractory periods were for humans, not angels with a lapful of very needy, very naked demon). But the angel had a plan, so, despite it feeling very counterproductive, he pushed Crowley out of his lap. 

“Hold on a moment, dear, I want to try-“

And suddenly the space between his legs was much softer and much wetter, and Crowley let out an appreciative growl, settling back on his haunches and slipping his hands down the angel’s body, squeezing lightly at his thighs, fingers hair-raisingly close to his cunt, glancing at his face to gauge his reaction. Aziraphale sat back against the pillows, nodding slightly when the demon looked to him for confirmation. He closed his eyes, a quiver of anticipation running up his spine as he felt his legs being pried even farther apart, and he positively shook when Crowley spoke, part awe, part greed, all lust.

“God, angel, look at you, so ready for me, so damn wet already, I’m going to fucking ravage you, you pretty thing.”

Aziraphale actually let out a quiet whimper, biting his lip and looking away, flames riding high on his cheeks as Crowley ran his hands teasingly along the insides of his thighs, staring at his reddened clit like it was the first food he’d had in eons, the angel’s own hands clenching and unclenching in the bedsheets. 

That looking away business- that wouldn’t do at all.

“Aziraphale, look at me.”

Nervously, the angel looked down, hands fisting even tighter in the pillows as he saw the hungry way Crowley was looking at him.

“I, uh- y-yes, dearest?”

“I- well, I want you to watch me. If you could. Possibly.”

Aziraphale’s mind blanked for a moment. Watch him? As he.. performed fellatio on him?

“Good lord,” he breathed. Crowley looked like he was about to apologize, to say it was fine, but the angel beat him to the punch.

“A-alright.”

Crowley’s eyes lit up, and he smiled nervously, licking his lips before maneuvering Aziraphale’s hips back to get better access. The angel closed his eyes, then remembered himself and looked down, just as the demon’s tongue first lapped at his entrance.

Crowley was- well, not in Heaven, not in the sterile, cold, cruel sense, but he was certainly in some sort of holy, perfect place. He glanced upwards at Aziraphale, his vision framed by his angel’s lovely thighs, and nearly laughed at the blissed-out and flustered expression on his face, though he caught himself in time and settled for an experimental press at his clit. Aziraphale cried out, legs jolting, but Crowley held him down firmly, dipping just inside the angel and feeling him squirm beneath his hands. Hell had given him a dexterous, silver tongue, and he’d be damned (ha) if he wasn’t going to exploit it. He spoke, in such a low, gravelly tone that it surprised him as well, though he tried not to show it.

“You gonna let me savor you, angel? Wanna fuck you with my tongue, wanna have you however you’d let me.”

The angel couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed Crowley’s strong jaw, scaring a sound out of him that was the exact opposite of the way he’d just been talking, and kissed him, panting out something that sounded like “Oh.. fuck-“ he paused, waiting for some form of divine wrath to strike him down. When nothing happened, he rocked his hips forward, pressing his forehead to Crowley’s, seemingly uncaring now. “I love you, oh, my dearest, please, you can do anything at all to me, anything-“ He kissed the demon again, tasting a hint of himself on that marvelous tongue, and he felt his face warm as he realized that was him that had made Crowley’s thigh all slick, his precome running down onto the sheets.

And now it was Aziraphale’s turn to stifle a laugh at the face Crowley was making, surprised and fond and so completely in love he could hardly stand it. The demon swallowed, feeling wholly exposed as the angel crowded into him, pulling him down so he was laying on top of his chest, kissing at any and every available bit of skin. Crowley quickly reciprocated, grinding down onto the area just above his effort before breaking off the kiss with a giddy smile, sliding back between those wonderful thighs, looking up at the angel with a raised eyebrow.

“Eyes on me now, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, hands fisting in the sheets again as he felt those clever fingers settle onto his thighs again. Crowley offered one last lovestruck smile before using his right hand to part his lips, hitching the angel’s thighs over his shoulders and taking the first of many long licks at Aziraphale’s effort.

The angel felt like his demon had been circling his rim for hours, only occasionally pressing up against his clit or licking up the precum that leaked out, so it was understandably surprising when the demon pulled away for a moment, then pushed his tongue straight into his slick hole. His hips ground forward of their own volition, and Crowley accepted the sudden mouthful of wet angel with gusto, allowing Aziraphale to whimper and thrust against his lips as he pleased as he pressed his tongue rhythmically upwards in a way that wrenched a loud “Oh! Oh Crowley, my darling- ah!” out of the angel. The tension was building in his core again, and his back arched, eyes fluttering up towards the heavens as he made another truly ridiculous noise. The demon dug his fingers into Aziraphale’s hips, properly tongue-fucking him now, feeling his extended tongue brush up against that lovely little bunch of nerves at the back with each desperate jolt of his partner’s hips. 

Crowley’s tongue was removed for a moment, and Aziraphale frowned at the loss of contact, though the pout quickly turned into a gasp as he felt the demon’s slender index and middle fingers slip easily inside of him and begin curling upwards at nearly double the speed. He forced his eyes downwards, nearly choking from the fiery intensity in Crowley’s eyes, watching, breathless, as the demon ground into his own palm with one hand, the other pushing deeper and deeper into the angel. Aziraphale’s back arched and he let out a final short cry as his orgasm crashed over him, and he watched dazedly as Crowley choked out something that sounded somewhat like “Gorgeous, angel, so good for me, so- ghk- ah!” as he came onto the sheets and his angel’s thighs. 

Aziraphale’s last semi-coherent thought before he passed out was how beautiful Crowley’s hair looked in the light. He hadn’t told him how much he liked the grown-out version yet. He should do that.

✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁

It could’ve been a minute or an hour later when Aziraphale managed to drag himself out of the receding tides of bliss, and when he did, Crowley had left the room. He allowed himself a moment more, laying tangled in the miraculously clean sheets, before forcing himself upright. He stumbled out of bed, somehow more tired than he’d been before he slept, and pulled his seldom-used fluffy yellow bathrobe off the back of the bathroom. He followed the sound of his demon’s voice and the clatter of plates, descending the stairs to the shop and his little kitchenette, seemingly crammed in the corner at the last minute. The tiles were checkered white and an odd shade of mint green that looked like someone had spilled dye on one of the tiles and just gone with it, and the walls were painted a painfully similar yet dissimilar shade. His countertops, beneath the stacks upon stacks of baked goods, were white marble, with pearly streaks across them that made it look like something was constantly sticking to the counter. He told himself he’d remodel it soon, but then again, he’d been telling himself that since the 50’s*.

*1956, to be more specific. Crowley had taken a break from an assignment in America to see how he was getting on with the bookshop, and he’d immediately despised the design of the place. Aziraphale had immediately resolved to get it fixed up when he had the time. Trouble was, he never seemed to have both the time and place of mind for it at the same time.

Crowley was digging through Aziraphale’s refrigerator, mumbling a song distractedly, more dancing than walking across the room towards the main countertop*. He’d pulled down one of the angel’s favorite plates, a light blue one with small white lilies decorating it, and was popping a piece of toast out of the ancient toaster, fumbling through one of the canary-yellow drawers for a butter knife. Aziraphale grinned as he noticed the demon was wearing one of his button-downs, a plain white one with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, over his boxers.

*Aziraphale tried not to look at his hips and the oddly magnetizing way they moved, but his eyes were determined to betray him.

Crowley was still dance-walking as the angel watched him cross the small room in a single easy stride to put the butter back in the fridge, humming an instrumental and drumming his fingers on the table as he reached towards the back for a jar of key lime marmalade that should’ve gone bad years ago. Aziraphale leaned against the wall, content to just watch his demon for the moment.

It really got him thinking, seeing Crowley with long hair again. The last time that had happened was when he was playing nanny to the false Antichrist, and before that..

Before that it was the sixties.

Maybe the sleepiness and the post-coital afterglow and the general presence of Crowley after months of missing him were affecting him more than he thought they would, because Aziraphale felt like crying. He scrubbed at his eyes as he remembered how cold and rude he’d been to the demon, how he’d brushed him off in fear of falling even deeper in love than he already had (though that hadn’t worked out very well). He thought of Crowley’s thinly veiled pleas for him to stay, of the conflicting feelings he could sense, love and annoyance and sadness, such overwhelming sadness he was surprised the demon wasn’t bursting into tears right there in the car.

And then he thought of the past years, of the pain they had pushed past to be together like this. He thought of the week the world should’ve ended, of the horrible words exchanged, each trying to protect themself, of Crowley’s tears over the bookshop and over him, and he remembered facing off against Satan himself together, and he remembered-

And he remembered the electric feel of holding his hand on the bus for the first time, and dining together at the Ritz, and that lovely day at Kew Gardens which ended in wine and laughter and a kiss.

As he stood in the doorway of his kitchenette, a tear rolling down his cheek and a hand cupped over his mouth, he realized that to live in this timeline, where Crowley wanted him and needed him and cooked breakfast for him and held him and loved him, all the imperfections seemed to wash away. Because to live in this timeline was miraculous, to say the least.

“Azira-? oh. Oh angel, what’s the matter?”

The angel shook his head, wiping away a tear and smiling shakily as Crowley stepped towards him, cupping his face in his long-fingered hands.

“Just-“ sniff- “just happy tears my- my dear.”

He embraced the demon, screwing up his eyes in a futile attempt at closing the waterworks. Crowley drew him in closer, pressing their foreheads together and running a hand through the back of his angel’s hair, his mouth pressed into a thin, worried line.

And then Crowley felt a lone tear slip from his eye, landing in the tangled halo of Aziraphale’s hair.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was crying at first, his mind still hazy from the events that had happened in the upstairs flat, but once he realized he couldn’t stop realizing. He was crying because the world didn’t end, and because it had come so close, too close, and because of the fire and the trial and the distant way the angel had said that he went too fast, that it was over, that it was out of the question.

He was crying because they were finally safe, finally together, and they’d worked so hard for it for six thousand bloody years, and it was worth it, even if ‘it’ was Falling and falling for so long he had time to write songs about both, years of wanting and wanting, decades of caution and secrecy and wariness. He was crying because he loved his angel, every bit of him, and his angel, unfathomably, loved him back, and they were standing in the kitchenette of Aziraphale’s bookshop, awash in golden sunlight, and they were in love, with the world and each other.

Aziraphale stepped back, still with that wobbling grin on his face, tear tracks highlighted by the watery midday sun.

“So- so sorry darling, it seems that I-I’ve gotten your shirt all damp. Well- my shirt. On you. Whatever.”

Crowley ever so slightly smiled, rolling his eyes. He wiped away a rogue drop slipping down his cheek, glancing down at the grey splotches on the shirt and shrugging.

“‘S alright. I did the same to your poor hair, anyways.”

Aziraphale faked a scandalized gasp, hands coming up as if to protect his hair from further assault.

“Oh how could you?”

He was smiling just barely too much for it to be good acting, which made Crowley let out a quiet cackle, which made him giggle as well, and now they were both laughing, faces still wet with tears, fresh ones springing to their eyes.

The demon felt like his heart was overfull, spilling out with a grin so fierce his face hurt. The tears had stopped, and now they were simply smiling at each other. No words were spoken. They both just.. knew, and not in the way Crowley just knew his orders from Hell, they knew like it was second nature, like instinct, like they’d evolved over the past millennia to simply know things about each other.

Crowley thought himself a fairly good nonverbal communicator, particularly when his longest-standing friend slash partner slash adversary was as bloody awful at actually saying things as he was. He’d seen many unsaid words, silent questions deemed too much to ask, on Aziraphale’s face throughout their time in the world.

And he’d never said a word. He wasn’t sure if he ever would.*

*He would, a few weeks later, make an offhand comment about “those blasted puppy eyes you always do”, which lead them down quite a rabbit hole.

This bit was too important to simply know though, or to guess from the way an eyebrow twitched or lips parted, so Aziraphale forced a few words out of his suddenly dry throat. He’d stopped smiling, as had Crowley, having both had a similar train of thought.

“Crowley?”

“..Y-yes, angel?”

“C- um, can I kiss you?”

Crowley smiled, soft and relieved and bliss-filled. The demon didn’t mention the fact that asking wasn’t typically necessary in an established relationship, because he knew his angel was anything but typical. He thought it sweet, really.

“Of course.”

And so they kissed, standing in the middle of the kitchenette, and on the windowsill a orchid that had stubbornly refused to grow bloomed, sprouting new buds and flowering magenta.

Later, after the kiss and after the orchid bloomed and after Aziraphale ate the toast, and after, snickering like a child that had just gotten away with stealing a cookie, Crowley led Aziraphale to the shower, and after (not without some prodding and suggesting) the demon haltingly admitted his slight obsession with being pinned by his angel, they were laying in bed, hair damp and smelling of vanilla, a mark or two the same color as the orchid proudly blooming on Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale had picked up some ancient book or another, and he was reading it sideways, curled up to Crowley’s back, radiating warmth. The demon was simply thinking, one arm resting around his partner’s shoulder, when the phone rang. Aziraphale sat up to get it, but Crowley waved him off, picking it up before the angel could protest.

“Hello? ..Oh! Book girl! How’ve you been?”

A pause. Aziraphale tapped on the demon’s shoulder, mouthing ‘Anathema?’ Crowley nodded at him, setting back against the headboard and smiling at whatever she’d said.

“Oh, well that’s, er, lovely. I do a fair bit of gardening myself, so after this whole mess is over, maybe I could, I dunno, help out?”

The angel had a sudden mental image of Crowley shouting at the plants outside Jasmine Cottage, Anathema and Newt looking on in confusion and/or horror, and stifled a snicker. The demon looked over at him, a besotted look taking over his face, and held the phone a bit away from him, just enough that she wouldn’t be able to hear him talking if it was quiet enough.

“She wants to know how we’re doing. How’d’ya think we’re doing, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled. He was warm, and content, and full of love, and he was cuddling up to the smitten, kind, wonderful demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden, after fucking his brains out in the shower. Heaven and Hell were frightened of them, and the world hadn’t ended, and they were together, after over six thousand years of stupid, stupid pining. Eternity was spread out in front of them, and all they had to do is let it arrive, let God work in Her mysterious ways, because, for once in their long, long, lives, they were absolutely certain She was on their side.

“I think, my dear, that we are doing just lovely.”

Crowley let out a quiet cackle, pressing a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead.

“Y’know, I really think we are, angel, I think we are.”

Smiling, he told Anathema as much.

✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁•✿•❁

And ultimately, it’s a beautiful thing  
Like flowers blooming in a lonely field, the petals drift through crossing winds  
That find their way to river streams and scent the water beautifully  
It takes me back to you  
It takes me back to  
you.


End file.
